


For Here There Be Dragons

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genitivi comes to Kirkwall to write a cultural history of the resources of the area.  He finds his herbalist informant intriguing, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Here There Be Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to include some kind of aphrodisiac use of Sol's potions, but I couldn't work it in. That just means I'll have to write this pairing again, I suppose.

There have been fewer customers at his stall recently, except for loyal clients built up in years past when it was easier to get permission to leave the Gallows and set up shop in the city for a time, or to visit noble patrons who hoped for a particular tincture or potion, and the ever adventurous Serah Hawke and that particularly intrepid individual’s equally intriguing companions (Sol always wonders how exactly they come by the ingredients he asks for, but then doesn’t find himself asking for the stories behind them).  Sol’s creations are still requested by particular clients, but it is lonely standing day by day at his stall in the Gallows and seeing nothing in the courtyard but templars and his fellow mages, skittish in the bright sunlight, uncomfortable in the unenclosed air.  Sol feels fortunate to be allowed to run his stall, to have such little skill in conventional magics such that he attracts so little notice, but he feels the fear, as well, the shiver down his spine when a templar looks at him for more than a moment, the certain knowledge that he would be just as useful, his skills just as profitable, if he were made Tranquil.

That is why he is surprised to see the man stopping at his stall that day.  He has never seen him before—he has an unassuming face with a large nose, thinning hair, but bright, intelligent, _questioning_ eyes, eyes that so few mages in the Gallows have any longer.  His clothes are plain, clean but travel-stained.  “You are an herbalist?” he asks.  “But . . . forgive me for asking . . . you do not seem to be Tranquil.”

So Sol finds himself explaining, and it is only after his explanation, and after they have agreed that the properties of embrium and Felicidus Aria were truly fascinating, that the man introduces himself as a chantry brother, and then gives his name as Ferdinand Genitivi, and Sol is awestruck.  He has read this man’s books a thousand times, dreaming of places he will never see, places he would love to see for himself but that feel as real as the four close stone walls about him in his cell-like room, the Gallows courtyard, thanks to the power of Genitivi’s words.  And now he is staring at him, this man who has crossed continents, seen the sacred ashes of Andraste herself, seen dragons, and looking . . . middle-aged and worn and almost average, but for his eyes.  Sol does not know what to say.

Genitivi takes pity on his awkwardness, it seems—perhaps he gets this particular reaction a great deal—and asks him what he knows about the uses of dragon’s blood.  He is writing a book, he says, on dragons, and then his mouth tilts wryly.  “I became curious,” he says, “after some firsthand experience.”  There is an entire story written in the look in his eyes, and Sol wants— _needs_ , suddenly—to hear it.

“I do know some small things about the usages of dragon’s blood and fangs,” Sol says eagerly.  “I would be happy to share that knowledge with you, if it would be of use.”

“You sound as if you have had some experience yourself,” Genitivi says, and the interested light in his eyes, the prospect of talking about one of his passions with someone who might actually be interested in it, makes Sol lean forward to tell him about the ingredients Hawke has brought him.

\--

That is the beginning of a collaboration, as Genitivi calls it.  Every day he comes by again, with more questions, all of them intelligent, about the uses of the various parts of dragons.  He seems especially interested in the uses of dragon’s blood.

“So you find that it can be beneficial?” he asks.  “Not just harmful?”

“There are those in Nevarra who swear by a sprinkling of dragon’s blood over their meal,” Sol tells him, then hesitates.  “Or so I have heard,” he admits.  But Genitivi’s eyes just spark with amused interest.

“Hearsay is often as illuminating as fact,” he says.  “I have found.  Tell me more of what you have heard.  I have reason to believe that dragon cults such as those found in . . . Nevarra, let us say for the sake of argument, drink the blood of dragons, and it gives them unusual powers.  Have you learned anything, perhaps from your own experience, that would give credence to this theory?”

And Sol swallows nervously, finding his eyes flicking to the templars standing at their posts.  “I . . . I am afraid I would not know,” he says, and feels like a coward, because he thinks from his own research that what Genitivi has proposed is very likely indeed, but he does not want to lose this, his own delight in research and discovery and debate, the pure pleasure in mixing his potions, to the eerie calm of Tranquility, and if he is overheard talking of blood magic, it will be the brand for him without a doubt.

“Ah,” Genitivi says, after a moment, for he has followed his gaze.  His face sets in almost sad lines, of compassion and understanding, and Sol is ashamed, suddenly, of the way things are, here, in Kirkwall, of his own fear, but he does not know how to explain.  But—”I understand,” Genitivi says.  “Let us speak of something else.”  The kindness and concern, the pure _understanding_ , in his eyes, makes Sol’s throat close, and he changes the subject to glitterdust and silverite with embarrassment, before he disgraces himself by such an overwrought respone to what is nothing more than a wise and prudent reply.

\--

Sol is widely regarded as harmless, and he makes few requests, so there is little trouble over his getting permission for a famous Chantry brother to visit him in his quarters.  He feels dishonest, even though he is doing nothing untoward—he simply wishes an academic discussion without having to worry about it being overheard and misunderstood.  The feeling of shame returns to him when Genitivi runs one hand curiously over the plain stone and says, “Are the quarters of all mages here so . . . austere?”

“Yes,” Sol says, and then feels compelled to excuse them by saying, “At least it is quiet.  It helps with my studies—and I have much time to experiment.”

Genitivi smiles.  “Yes,” he says, “there is that.  I have found that silence is often the best aid to scholarly endeavors.”  But there is a deeper understanding in his face, and Sol finds himself wondering what he has seen.

\--

Genitivi says he is planning to stay in Kirkwall for several months.  He has found much to study, though not much on the topic he is currently investigating, he admits with an almost sheepish smile that invites Sol to share in the joke.  Sol finds himself selfishly glad of that.  But it has been many years—so many he nearly cannot remember the last time—since he has had someone to share his thoughts with, someone with whom to discuss the pursuit of knowledge, though Genitivi’s interest lies more in the whys and hows of culture and people rather than Sol’s fascination with the natures of physical objects and how they change when exposed to magic, how they can be combined.  And Genitivi is not a mage, but his understanding of the theory is surprisingly keen, and what he does not know he more than makes up for in his study of the world at large.  Sol realizes with mixed pleasure and embarrassment that Genitivi spends large portions of their discussions simply relating stories of his exploits to Sol’s hungry ears, but he does not seem to mind.

\--

Sol is aware of his hopeless infatuation not long after it begins, the way his heart leaps up to beat in his throat like a boy when Genitivi speaks, the way his hands tremble and begin to sweat when they make eye contact.  It is a combination of the man’s incredible mind and the breadth of his knowledge, his wry humor and quiet wisdom, his lack of judgment that is so different from what Sol has come to expect from those associated with the Chantry, the attraction of the adventurer’s heart that seems to beat under that unassuming exterior—for Sol can admit it, those who possess the steel and fire to seek out new experience have always held a fascination for him—and, Sol thinks ruefully, of his own isolation, how long it has been since he has had someone to talk to like this.  He has always been attracted to other men, so it is not surprising in that sense, but dalliances under the watchful eye of Meredith Stannard’s templars are unwise to the point of suicidal, and Sol has never been a particularly bold man.  He keeps it to himself, all too aware that the chance of Genitivi—a sworn brother of the Chantry—reciprocating such feelings, and from a mage, are all but nonexistent.

But then one day he catches himself too late when he reaches out to stop Genitivi from leaving and his hand falls warm on his arm and he catches his breath, feeling his face flush when Genitivi turns back toward him, and the words he had planned to say, about his having a few dragonling fangs left from Serah Hawke’s last trip to the Bone Pit, die in his throat.

Genitivi blinks, and steps forward.  “If I am wrong about this,” he says, “I pray that you will forgive me, for I would like to continue to call you friend,” and before Sol can fully process _that_ , that such a famous man, and author, a man who has seen so many wondrous things the world over, who has met the _Hero of Ferelden_ , among so many others, would wish to call him friend, Genitivi has reached up to catch his jaw in his hand and brought their lips firmly together. 

It has been many years since Sol was last kissed, and he fears he is dreadfully clumsy.  He knows it.  The touch of Genitivi’s mouth is a shock of warmth, of breath, and he responds eagerly, too eagerly for any semblance of elegance or grace.  It is only the solid reality of the gray walls around him rather than Fade’s shifting shapes that makes him believe this is real.  Genitivi is not particularly practiced at kissing, either, but it is better than anything that Sol has ever dreamed, for all its wet, breathless ungainliness and the way their noses and jaws bump together.

When Genitivi pulls away, he smiles and says with a slight laugh, “I see I am not mistaken.”

Sol is reminded that dragons, too, were thought to be nonexistent, and now in the last few years they fly in the skies above both Kirkwall and Ferelden.  He laughs and ducks his head, overwhelmed by feelings he is unaccustomed to feeling, pleasure and hope making his heart quicken rather than fear.

\--

Genitivi requests permission from the Knight-Commander herself for Sol to be allowed to leave the Gallows, to go with him to the Wounded Coast and study a rare collection of flowers he has come across there.  It shocks Sol when she agrees.  It is the first time he has left the Gallows in five years, and everything feels new and unfamiliar, despite the fact that he has crossed these waters, walked these streets, before.  Genitivi smiles at his reactions, but it is that smile tinged with sadness again.  Sol is too caught up in the freedom of being able to walk the streets and even to _leave the city_ , to see plants growing in their natural habitats, surrounded by grasses and dirt, that he can spare little thought for the reaction.  He kneels in the sandy loam of the Wounded Coast and sinks his hands into the dirt to breathe in the smell of it, welcoming the grass stains no doubt accumulating on his robes, the salt spray of the air.

Genitivi squats beside him.  “There are actually no flowers,” he admits with a sly smile and a sideways look that belies the diffident confession in his tone.

Sol blinks, surprised.  Genitivi is obviously quite an accomplished liar.  “Then why . . .” he begins.

“Is it so odd that I would wish to give you a day of freedom?” Genitivi asks, and straightens, brushing off the knees of his breeches and offering Sol his hand.  “I think you have as much of a thirst for knowledge as I do, my friend.”

Sol straightens as well, suppressing the thrill that goes through him at the touch of that warm, weathered palm.  One kiss, however welcome, however hungry or tender, is nothing to build dreams on.

“And, I admit,” Genitivi says, then, “though I am by no means an expert at arranging trysts, I did want to get you _truly_ alone, for reasons of my own that I doubt your ever watchful guards would entirely appreciate.”

“O-oh,” Sol says, struggling to process that.  “I can’t say that that news is unwelcome,” he says finally, and offers a smile.  Genitivi smiles back and kisses him again.

\--

Their coupling is awkward, neither of them much practiced in the skills of love, but Genitivi is warm and patient and even hesitant.  Sol finds himself the more experienced in this one area of life and living, with some surprise.  They are both approaching middle age, worn, Genitivi by travel and Sol, he supposes, by strain and fear, but that does not diminish the warmth in a kiss or the beauty of another’s hand seeking out responses and pleasure long-denied.  Genitivi is careful and methodical and curious, his mouth is warm and generous, and Sol barely notices the sandy gravel or the twigs poking into his shoulders and back.

\--

They build a fire and sit on the beach afterward.  They sit close together and talk of plants and legendary creatures, and Genitivi tells him stories of the Warden that remind Sol of Serah Hawke, somehow.  Genitivi sits with his hand on Sol’s back, and he feels closer to him than he has felt to anyone in a very long time.

“I will not like to leave you,” Genitivi says finally, slowly.  “There is something wrong in your Circle, something odd about this city that goes deep beneath the stones, and I believe you know it.  In my experience, whenever a group begins gathering more power when they already possess so much and exercising it with such unyielding rigidity, there is only worse to come.”

Sol sighs and nods.  “We are all afraid,” he admits finally, and he feels his shoulders tense simply at saying it aloud, as if somehow the templars will know he said such things and punish him for them.  “The Knight-Commander . . . she sees blood magic in the most innocuous of comments.  And the rules . . . they are ever more strict.  I am fortunate not to attract much notice.”

“I have never found any evil in magic in and of itself,” Genitivi says with care.  “But I have found great good in those who are born with it.”  He brushes the lower curve of Sol’s back, an affectionate implication in the caress that makes Sol blush.  “I hope you will take . . . care with yourself, as much as ever you have with your potions, and if you ever have cause to seek aid, well, I have a house in Denerim.  Even if I am not there, I will be certain my assistant knows to make you welcome.”

“Thank you,” Sol breathes, shocked at the gesture, though he cannot imagine he will ever have occasion to make use of it.

“You can teach me more of the uses of dragon’s blood,” Genitivi smiles, in a way that makes his eyes crinkle and dance.  “I confess, I find myself greatly intrigued by herbalism these days.”


End file.
